Chapter 119: This Is Performance Art!
Chapter 119: This Is Performance Art!
At 8 p.m. that evening, a brand-new channel launched with a freshly uploaded video, having just passed review.
Masterpiece Showcase, Episode 1: “Game Producer” and a Large-Scale Piece of Performance Art!
Teacher Qiao’s fans were stunned.
What’s going on? Wasn’t he playing dead?
After disappearing for three days… he suddenly dares to stir the pot again?
And it’s another sponsored video—for the same game?
He’s clearly asking for trouble!!
Recently, “Qiao-ism” had gone viral across major video platforms. While many creators had posted similar videos, Teacher Qiao had been the first, so naturally, he had to carry the blame.
To upload another video under these circumstances—everyone could imagine how the comment section would get completely overrun by people spamming memes and roasting him alive.
Was this him giving up on dignity?
Maybe he figured his reputation was already ruined, so he might as well go all-in. After all, controversy still brings traffic. Why not ride the wave of “Qiao-ism” to milk one last round of sponsorship money?
Considering Teacher Qiao’s current position, it was hard not to think that way.
So, with anxiety, suspicion, or just a desire to watch the chaos unfold, viewers clicked on the video—ready to unload their anger.
But Teacher Qiao’s very first sentence shut them up completely.
“Hello everyone. I’m still your Teacher Qiao.”
“I know what you’re all thinking. But before you start flaming me, there’s something I must regretfully announce.”
“Three days ago, on April 1st—April Fool’s Day—we launched a large-scale piece of performance art. And it was a complete success. But… the results of this performance test are also deeply disheartening.”
“That’s right. The theme of this art experiment was: In the internet age, which is more likely to go viral? A dumb, low-effort short video, or a high-quality, deeply meaningful game made with millions in budget?”
“And after our little experiment… I regret to inform you of the result.”
“It was the former.”
Many viewers who were about to flame him… found their words dying on their lips.
All that remained was confusion.
Huh? Performance art?
What kind of weird plot twist is this?
Driven by curiosity, they kept watching.
Teacher Qiao continued in the video, first explaining what performance art was—its definition and principles—then moved on to the purpose of this experiment.
According to him, the entire event had been orchestrated by Tengda, and the objective was to explore a profound theme:
In the digital information age, we’re overwhelmed with content. This is an era of information explosion, and simultaneously… information scarcity.
“Information explosion” means that anyone can access an overwhelming amount of online content. Even a minor event in a small town might—due to some quirk—go viral and become national news overnight.
But “information scarcity” means that truly valuable content—content with meaning and depth—is often buried under mountains of fast-paced, flashy, brainless junk designed only to grab attention.
So, this performance art experiment was designed to run a comparison.
Teacher Qiao and many other creators uploaded nearly identical videos. The content was absurdly exaggerated—ridiculous tone, empty praise, even identical scripts.
These videos were engineered to chase clicks—full of cringey bilingual catchphrases and obnoxious filler words.
They were intentionally worthless, but because so many influencers posted them simultaneously—and because the content was flashy and meme-worthy—they triggered a viral phenomenon.
And the meteoric rise of “Qiao-ism” proved it.
One deliberately dumb short video, thanks to how low-effort it was and how easily it could be mimicked, actually went viral—and became a meme sensation!
This clearly demonstrated a harsh truth:
In this era… many of those sudden “viral sensations” you see might not be random at all.
There’s always someone pulling the strings behind the curtain.
In contrast, Tengda’s newly released game, Game Producer, was not a flashy-looking product.
Its depth was immense, but everything meaningful was buried beneath the surface, requiring patience and insight to uncover.
It exposed the real conditions of the industry, satirized its chaos, and whether in voice acting, art style, or gameplay mechanics, the game was brimming with innovation and sincerity.
Yet what was the game’s actual reception?
Mixed. Many players didn't recognize its value.
Some didn’t even make it past five minutes before quitting.
And that—this stark contrast between a meaningless viral short video and a deeply crafted game—is the core of this performance art piece. That alone is already bitingly ironic.
By this point in the video, many viewers were stunned.
“So that’s what this was all about?”
Thinking back carefully… it actually made sense.
What kind of game company would be dumb enough to let influencers make such cringeworthy sponsored content? Wouldn’t that just hurt their brand image and product reputation?
Sure, Teacher Qiao wasn’t known for his moral high ground, but from his past videos, he had always shown sincerity. Why would he suddenly resort to such a low-effort shill?
It didn’t match his personality… or more importantly, his intelligence.
And he wasn’t the only one. So many video creators had posted identical content.
Are we seriously supposed to believe that all those influencers coincidentally copied Teacher Qiao’s script on their own?
Impossible.
The only logical explanation was that Tengda gave them all the same script.
But then, why would a generous sponsor choose such an obviously ineffective promotional method?
Wouldn’t it be smarter to let each creator make their own unique content? That would’ve delivered better results for the same cost—a win-win.
Yet Tengda deliberately chose this dumb and unified script, forcing every content creator to robotically read the same lines, resulting in near-total negative impact.
That didn’t make any sense… unless—
Teacher Qiao’s explanation was the only one that fit.
This really was a massive piece of performance art.
And what happened afterwards?
“Qiao-ism” went viral. But Game Producer? It didn’t.
And that was the perfect proof of Qiao’s thesis.
In the internet age, deep and meaningful works often get buried, while low-quality, eye-catching trash dominates people’s attention.
The more they listened, the more it made sense.
So, they kept watching.
The topic naturally transitioned to Game Producer.
And now, Teacher Qiao was in his element.
This video was part of a new channel called “Masterpiece Showcase.”
Its tone and style were completely different from his usual formats like “Trash Game Roast” or “This Month’s Recommended Games.”
Teacher Qiao began analyzing Game Producer from every angle, explaining why it truly deserved to be called a masterpiece.
“Many players think you can evaluate whether a game is a masterpiece based on its graphics, gameplay, story, controls, or replay value.”
“But those qualities are only what separate a good game from an average one. They don’t define a masterpiece.”
“A true masterpiece must have a massive impact on the industry, must be rich in meaning, able to withstand repeated discussion and replays, and above all—must resonate with players on a soul-deep level.”
“If it doesn’t meet these criteria, it might be excellent—but it’s not a masterpiece.”
“Game Producer fits this definition perfectly.”
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